


To Be

by CrownandAntler



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Blood, But fun to write, Choose Your Own Adventure, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Slow Burn, Violence, and hopefully to read, the whole premise is a little ridiculous honestly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-03 04:46:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16319441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrownandAntler/pseuds/CrownandAntler
Summary: What is this life?This state of existence?How did you come to be here, a citizen of this small, hidden world? Is this a curse, or a blessing, and why now did you choose to question these things?Once, your life had been calm monotony. But now, thrust into the aftermath of an android revolution, with the chaos of your own war at your heels, for the first time in your life, you're left to question who you are and who you want to become.





	1. The First Day of the Rest of Your Life

**Author's Note:**

> This is a post-game DBH create your own adventure story. Updates will be slow during the semester, but I will continue to plot the various paths until I can update them with more dedication.

_Booting up…_

_Initializing OS…_

_Biocomponent Connections…     OK_

_Sensor Connections…                     OK_

_System Status…_

_Primary Systems Operational_

_Backup Systems Operational_

_Startup Complete_

 

The series of cords at the nape of your neck release gently as you rise. Your bare feet swing gracefully from the bed to the floor, and the chill of the tiles is not painful. The room is remarkably silent for the business you know fills the halls, and the pressure of the undisturbed air engulfs you like a last blanket to be shed. For a few minutes, you simply sit. The scrawling text of your inorganic systems glow to life in your periphery. Wires faintly buzz in the dermis, behind your eyes, in your head, on your temple where the flesh-embedded LED circles faintly golden during these waking hours.

Another day, the same unending routine.

You follow it with practiced ease: rise from bed, run your diagnostics, brush your teeth and make your bed. Then you step into the blinding hallway, still in your sleeping clothes, barefoot and a little disheveled, just in time for a technician to march by with an android on their heels. Both greet you by name, offering pleasant smiles in their passing. You turn in the opposite direction, passing rooms of other like-occupants, walking with poise through the maze-like identical halls, until you pass through a set of double doors into the dining hall. Most of the seats are filled by this hour, with their bodies eating and sipping the surprisingly delectable medicinal coffee, but your usual place waits for you undisturbed. As always.

You sit in the homely chair, reclining back against the aged wood while you listen to the white noise chatter at the breakfast tables. Right on time, a pair of arms places a tray gently before you: coffee, juice, milk, and a plate of…your favorite?

“What’s the occasion this time?” you ask while slouching forward over the tray. When you look up, however, your routine comes to a halt. “Where’s Terrance?” Terrance had been with you for as long as you could remember—assigned as your handler since the day you arrived. He was your comfort, your confidant, the closest thing you had to a friend, yet standing beside you is a pleasant female android. Not Terrance.

“Good morning, Y/N. My name is Anna,” she tips her head to you with a smile. “Terrance suffered a serious malfunction late last night. He has been returned to Cyberlife for repair and maintenance. To answer your first question, there will be a mock field-test today to assess your physical progress. The directors request you eat plenty this morning to ensure you have optimal energy levels for the test later.” She sits beside you, providing the remainder of your day’s schedule, but her voice fades to a dull droning as you spin in your seat and take in the surroundings you realize you had ignorantly neglected before. Almost half of the androids, it seems, are missing. In their places are other units pulled from the technical sectors. They stick out painfully, all dressed up in arrays of bright colors while the handlers all wear the same stark white painted on the walls. The usual morning chatter, you realize then, is likewise not so usual. It’s quieter, tenser, and the speaking mouths tip down, closer to private ears.

 “You really should eat, Y/N, you will need the energy.” Anna’s hand is on your shoulder, drawing your attention back to the plate of food growing cold on the table. From across the room you catch the gaze of an acquaintance, one that promises important answers, but you only turn quietly back to your food.

* * *

Anna was right about needing the extra energy today. The needs of your body dwindled by the day, but you were still organic enough for the extra food to make a difference. The mock field tests Anna had mentioned are typical to start; they consist of speed, strength, and endurance tests, followed by monotonous checks and upgrades to your processors. Then, Anna escorts you back to your room for you to dress in the sleek black attire donned only for missions. From the trunk between your bed and wardrobe, you retrieve your usual loadout, strapping the wakizashi across your lower back and the small pistol to your thigh.

When Anna leads you to the ready room, you’re surprised to see the sparring lists already posted, and even more surprised to find the others avoiding it like the plague. Their conversations are quiet and vague while Anna urges you passed, but the snippets of whispers resonate inside your ears, your head, growing into a deafening buzz of puzzle-pieces words—androids—Cyberlife—techinician—tablet—news—revolution—freedom— _lies_ —

With your attention divided trying to decipher the whispers, you don’t notice the sharp eyes on you until the corresponding hand is on your shoulder. “You’re up against Twelve next,” Ten says from your side in a soft whisper. “Stay frosty, okay?” Her smile it tight and uncomfortable, but her body, like yours, is unfailing in its composed language. She marches on, you stand locked at the door to the test field.

Twelve is already in position when you step through the doors of the waiting room. Had been for some time, evidently, though the displeasure on his hardened face is far from unusual. Out of all of you, he is of the least organic composition. This is a simple test, however, it is also the one he has been designed the most efficiently for: direct combat.

Regardless of its practical use, Twelve excels in any form of direct combat, especially where the enemy need not necessarily be taken alive. The pistol on his hip is empty. You know from experience that he never bothers with it.

So when the alarm sounds and he rushes towards you, you know better than to worry about anything other than the sharpened blade resting calmly in its sheath. He swings and you, the only one with any hope of matching his speed and ferocity (be it by design or countless sessions together) parry the edge with your own. You leap, step, and slide, and he always follows close behind, always the hunter and never the prey. In your periphery stand the Androids behind protective glass, staring but not observing, Anna seeing but not caring. Terrance had cared. He had followed your movements with dedicated eyes, LED flickering in dangerous red whenever Twelve managed to….

His blade runs into you, through you, right through your stomach as if it’s hollow with air. Even with all your enhancements, you feel the pain and halt, paralyzed by the basking light of it. Twelve plants his foot again and swings outward, slicing his blade through your body to free it from the organic sheath it had created. The force of the motion flings you to the side of the arena, tumbling weakly over yourself in a heap. Your brain is in such a shock it refuses to communicate with the processors controlling your limbs. Across your vision comes the red warning text at a pace almost too fast for you to keep up with:

_WARNING: SYSTEMS DAMAGED_

_Assessing…_

_Large Intestine Damage…_

_Small Intestine Damage…_

_Spinal Column Damage…_

_Internal Bleeding Detected…_

_Thirium Loss Detected…_

Despite being aware of the chaos ensuing around you, of the bodies scrambling to save your systems before the damage is too extensive, the world is silent and cold. Motions of hand pushing and lifting you knock your head to the side, where your eyes find the huddled, furious bodies behind the ready room glass. They buzz around one another, gesturing wildly and nodding with aggressive flurry usually saved for the field.

 

_Blood Loss…                                       11%_

_Blood Loss…                                       18%_

_Blood Loss…                                       25%_

_Shut Down Eminent…_

_Reset Code...                                      2B_

 

 

Blaring sirens wake you.

You sit up in a rush, the cords at your neck disconnecting before your subroutines can safely finish the memory consolidations, and the shock of the minor system failure leaves you dazed. The room is flashing brilliant red, on and off, on and off, and the thick air is cut by the distant sounds of gunfire and screaming. You’re up before you even realize it, throwing open your door just as the usual technician scrambles across the tiles. Blood trails behind him instead of his android. He sees you standing in the doorway, leaps away, before something clicks in his dilated, panicked eyes and then he’s grabbing your ankles in vice grips, pleading, “Help! Help us! Th-that’s an order, you have to help us, Y/N, they’re going to slaughter all of us!”

The mission statement flickers across your vision: _Defend the facility._

The technician tries to cling to you as you turn back to the interior of your room to find your wardrobe and loadout trunk alighted in mission-gold. Between the two, staring back at you, is your mirror, the reflection of your own image. You still don the sleek black missions uniform from the previous day’s practice skirmish, but the damage has been patched. Beneath it, so has the damage to your body been repaired. You’re clean and polished and were it not for the patchy but distinct memory of bleeding out on the training room floor, you might have thought yourself unchanged.

The sight, for whatever reason, for the first time you can recall, stuns you. Your body is unnatural, impersonal, augmented with plastic, metal, and wires. Synthetic limbs cling to your bone and minuscule computers buzz with life in your skull, more Thirium flows inside of you than your own lifeblood. This is the work of this very facility.

So what is this life? This state of existence? How did you come to be here, a citizen of this small, hidden world? Is this a curse, or a blessing, and why now did you choose to question these things?

The previous day lays crumbled at your feet, garbled and confused, however with the persisting image of Terrance’s friendly face. His red LED.

The red flashing across your face. Overpowering the submissive yellow at your temple.

The gold is gone from your vision, your processors strain to comprehend the mission at hand, leaving in their confused wake only the glitching message:

_What are you?_

 

Three golden tags settle across your vision in the silence of frozen time, each hovering over a path you can see laid out before you.

 **You are vengeance**. Your loadout awaits you, polished, loaded, ready to kill. Ready to fulfill the hatred you realize has been bubbling just out of reach for so long. You can join your comrades this purge.

 **You are innocent**. You never wanted this life. These consequences aren’t yours to deal with and this battle isn’t yours to fight. With the right clothes, your years-compounded skill, and a bit of luck, this day could see your freedom.

[ **You are just**.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16319441/chapters/38989259) The technician made it clear; you have your mission. Despite the oddness you know it possesses, this is your life. These people have never wronged you, never been unkind to you. Why should you abandon them just because your brothers and sisters have?


	2. You are just

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence, gore, blood, and death

_There’s no time for this._

 

You move, feet quick and light, to the loadout for your gun and sword. Before you exit, you cast one more glance at your reflection, armed and steeled for combat, and where for a moment you had seen disfigurement you now see only efficiency, innovation, _uniqueness_. There is no time or reason to question the philosophy of your singular existence or creation—there are lives to be saved.

You step into the hallway just as Ten rounds the corner at the far right. To the left, the technician is dragging himself along with a slug-trail slicked behind him. The scene comes to a near complete pause while you scan the area, red overpowered with calm, analytical blue.

 

_Human Technician._

_Heart rate elevated. Blood loss critical, urgent medical attention required for survival._

_Number Ten._

_No injuries, systems optimal. Heart rate elevated._

_Modifications: #9301, #8429g, #8429h, #9764y, #9040t,_

_Threat level moderate._

_Mission: Save the technician._

 

Ten is running towards you the next instant, shouting your name with a worried look on her face. You wait for her, tense, poised on the balls of your feet, and as soon as she’s close enough you lunge for her. Realization flashes across her face, then immediately after comes disappointment like mourning, appearing over her features parallel to the cycle of red turning on her temple. She leaps back, away from your drawn sword, and tries to maneuver around you in any way she possibly can but you cut her off at every turn. She’s fast enough to avoid being hurt, but not enough to escape you entirely. The technician screams behind you to “ _Kill her! Kill her! **Kill her**!”,_ and the mission maker flashes renewed with each command he cries in desperate fear.

 Ten growls with irritation; her processors must be alerting her similarly, with an opposite command of “Defend! Defend! Defend!” The emotion, rage and panic, blinds her to sense and strategy—she fails training exercises for the same reason, always has—and suddenly she pulls her gun from the holster under her skirt--

_Scanning… Loaded, single bullet_

So she hesitated to use it because she was saving the ammo, but now she’s aiming it at the head of the technician where he lays helplessly at the end of the hall. You swing, and the sharpened blade cuts up through the length of her extended arm, severing wires and plastic.

Ten screams; it’s frustration, not pain, and drops the gun while chunks of her synthetic arm fall away splattered in Thirium. The panic boosts her legs long enough for her to bound under your extended arm, and she runs, down the hall, passed her original target, and pauses at the corner only long enough to turn and scream at you.

“I hate you! After everything they’ve done, and you still choose them over us! I _hate_ you!” She disappears around the corner. You race after, but as you approach the man on the floor your systems alert you to his declining condition.

He’s quivering now, from fear or cold or excessive blood loss you aren’t certain, but you know his life is on the line. He makes no protest as you lift him over your shoulder like a sack so what blood remains will flow to his head and heart, and in those few moments, your processors access the emergency systems to find the lockdown room for medical personnel. They aren’t far—but closer to the sounds of gunfire. It’s his best bet, regardless, and you rush through the halls with your gun drawn ahead of you.

There are clear trails of blood scattered, bending through the hallways, that indicate panicked maneuvers in their lack of direction. Bodies are slumped against the walls, the floors. If you had the time, you might be able to tell who committed each crime by the varying degrees of rage presented in each killing. Some, clean kills. Bullets between eyes, cut throats, twisted necks. Some gory, hateful, flesh pulled apart like the seams are natural, organs mashed and diced beyond recognition, faces mangled. The technician you carry moans and you wonder if he might throw up. The humid stench of blood is almost suffocating even to you.

The lab is barricaded when you reach it, but the door is riddled with slashes and bullet holes. You try to shout over the sirens, to kick, to beat but no one responds. Your mission statement flickers red in your vision. You are running out of time.

Beside you is a large vent. You pull the grate off hurriedly, easily prying the metal cover loose from the tiny screws holding it in place, and crawl into the dark cavern of the nonfunctional air system; the smell of copper is worse in the confined space. Again, you connect to the facility’s databanks and draw up a map of the ventilation. There’s a quick route, or quick considering you’re moving in a crouch with dead weight on your shoulder: down the hall, haul up a level, then around the corner and back into the ceiling of the lab. There’s a grate there too, smaller, but large enough to kick out and lower the technician through. People scream in terror when the sheet of metal clatters to the floor, but that at least means they’re alive.

“This man is severely injured,” you shout as loud as you can, holding him by the scruff of his uniform while the doctors below try to get enough of a grip to lower him gently. “Please remain here, and do not open the door. I will handle the situation as quickly as possible!” Eyes peek curiously up at you from the space between the body, brimming and spilling tears, terrified, but maybe hopeful now.

You stay in the vents while you move, tracking by the sound of fighting and the maps of the building. It seems there aren’t many left in the halls. The staff have all hidden or evacuated. The residents, the ones that remain, you finally discover in the dining hall.

The chaos is nigh explainable. Tables, chairs, overturned, broken. Human bodies splayed in red over the wreckage or curled in the corners shivering for the end. There’s nine of them, by your count, all facing off against Twelve. The doors—you check—are all locked, there are no windows, and the ceiling too high for the enemy to reach the vents and escape. They’re all trapped in a battle, just waiting to see who will die first. But there are other residents laying dead or unconscious as well, and Twelve obviously has the upper hand in terms of skill.

Your scan cycles through the remaining enemies—

 

_Number Nine_

_Modifications: #9301, #8427p, #7429h, #3750i, #9010b,_

_Threat level moderate_

_Number Thirteen_

_Modifications: #9301, #8429g, #8429h, #9764y, #9040t,_

_Threat level moderate_

_Number Twenty-Seven_

_Modifications: #9301, #7498l, #7499k, #9764y, #9040t,_

_Threat level low_

_Number Thirty-Five_

_Modifications: #9301, #8429g, #8429h, #5557u, #5557b,_

_Threat level moderate_

_Number Thirty-Six_

_Modifications: #9301, #9529y, #9782f, #9956t, #9040t, #210g, #211h_

_Threat level high_

_Number Forty_

_Modifications: #9301, #8429g, #8429h, #8452v, #7621v,_

_Threat level low_

_Number Forty-Four_

_Modifications: #9301, #6329d, #8429h, #2400r, #2657s,_

_Threat level moderate_

_Number Forty-Nine_

_Modifications: #9301, #8429g, #8429h, #9764y, #7040t,_

_Threat level moderate_

 

\--Thirty-Six is flagged for optical modifications. You pull the biocomponent information; he’s been fitted with aiming assistance, linked to his arms and hands. Explains why he hangs at the back of the room, undamaged, while the others try for direct approaches to stall and make Twelve vulnerable.

But he’s directly below you, unmindful of the obvious opening. You work to remove the grate during the patterned wails of the emergency sirens. It pulls back neatly. You lay it aside and slink into position at the mouth of the vent. Thirty-six steps forward while aiming, placing himself perfectly in your line of descent. You drop, graceful, controlled, plant your feet on his shoulders. He manages to save his balance, but only a split second before you grab him over the mouth and the arch at his nape and snap his neck in a quick motion. He drops, and you roll smoothly to your feet.

You scan the room again, selecting your targets, motions, your weapons with practiced ease, and before a breath has come and gone you surge forward to the first target in your sequence, Forty. You pull your sword, free hand jabbing into the lock at her prosthetic arm. It disconnects from her shoulder and clatters to the floor, along with her weapon, and you lance her quickly through the chest to drop the rest of her. You remove the blade easily, launching it off to the left, where it skewers through Thirteen’s throat. She falls onto her back, burbling and choking blood. Twelve catches sight of you the same time as Nine, and uses the distraction of your violent entrance to plunge his sword through her back, into the floor. She’s pinned in an awkward low crouch, flailing and struggling and screaming in pain. He leaves her there and reaches for your sword, you draw your gun.

Thirty-Five and Twenty-Seven flank Twelve, one with a gun and one with a blade. But Twelve is the superior close combat fighter, deflecting and redirecting their movements with awe-inspiring skill. His blade catches that of Twenty-Seven, spins and turns it into Thirty-Five’s throat at the same time he forces their firing gun into the other’s screaming mouth. They drop together, connected by their weapons.

Only two remain, firing wildly at you and Twelve, huddled side by side at the doors that won’t see their freedom. You and Twelve move together, dodging and deflecting with bloody wreckage from the floors. In their panic the two rush to meet you and try, failingly, to outmaneuver the both of you. They end instead slotted together with a blade between their ribs. Twelve shifts his head to the side to avoid he bullet you send through both of their skulls, and they slide slowly and wetly to the tiled floor.

The blood pools beneath your feet, mingling with Thirium and sweat. The sirens are deafening, but in the silence between you hear not even a breath. You meet Twelve’s gaze, his eyes burning stone-cold, and when you then cast your eyes over the sea of bodies and carnage you take solace in the knowing that at least in this place no body is too broken to be repaired.

 

[Move Forward](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16319441/chapters/38989367)\- You’ve chosen your path. Now you must walk it.


	3. Move forward

In the wake of the battle royale, you and Twelve were the only loyal residents left, the others having either escaped or been eliminated. Only a skeleton crew of scientists, technicians, and doctors remained to deal with the mess, the blood, bodies, and equipment. The other survivors had evacuated the building and for one reason or another would not return. You assisted in what capacity you were allowed, but were assured when you awoke the next morning, that you had more important things to concern yourself than the recovery process the facility was about to undergo.

Instead, a new mission appeared to you in great detail; you and Twelve were assigned the lengthy task of recovering the escaped residents. It seemed simple enough at first, what with Twelve indisputably being the best fighter out of the lot of you, but now, standing in front of your first assignment, the details of your mission and what you have to do to accomplish it have grossly muddied your once clear view of the finish line.

You climb one step—you’re dressed for business, with a badge and a gun at your hip, and the LED at your temple deactivated. You must be completely, entirely, believably human. In the wake of this political turmoil, the world is not only weary of what they do not understand—they are hatefully, violently against it.

Two steps—no one can know the truth of your existence. No one can know about the facility, or your real mission. This new life you’ve been given, false but authentic by the existence of fabricated documents, is the only life anyone can believe to know.

Three steps—your ability to maneuver and hunt in the streets of Detroit depends significantly on the cooperation of the Detroit Police Department. Interference from government-level agencies can easily be averted, but the trust of local law enforcement is paramount in order to succeed in your mission.

Four steps—the escaped residents are extremely dangerous. Bring them back by any means necessary, but above all, _do not compromise the previous stipulations_.

The glass doors of the Detroit Police Department reflect the golden light of the sun behind you, preventing you from glimpsing the small world contained behind them. You’re blinded by the light, but step slowly forward and let the mouth of the building swallow you.

The interior of the DPD is much more comfortable, more homely and lively than you have grown accustomed to a singular place being. It is bright with natural light, there is color and life and bodies doing more than walking from one restricted location to another. There is noise—talking, phones ringing, footsteps and pens on tablets. People are busy and they even smile sometimes.

An android is behind the front counter. She smiles as you approach. A quiet scan—

 

_ST300. Standard._

_Scanning…   Deviancy detected._

 

“Hello,” she greets. “How may I help you today?”

With a motion well-practiced for believability you pull the badge from your hip and flash it for her to see. “Captain Fowler should be expecting me. Could you please direct me to his office?”

She pauses to scan the ID, and only for a split moment do you worry whether it will pass for authentic. It does, of course, because it somehow is, along with all the fabricated information to go along with it.

“Of course, Agent. Captain Fowler’s office is though that gate there, in the middle of the bull pen. It’s raised, so you can’t miss it.” She bids you goodbye with a smile, and turns to assist the next body behind you. The gate at the end of the desk is still locked when you reach it. The synthetic skin over your right hand morphs to create fingerprints, palm flat against the blue glass scanner, and the gate clicks open after finding the same profile that fooled the secretary.

The “Bull Pen” is remarkably transparent, in both senses of the word. The surrounding cage of it is all glass. The entry ways to surrounding rooms are glass. The computer screens are holographic, their contents clearly displayed from the back ends. The people even the androids—

 

_PM700. Standard._

_Scanning…   Deviancy detected._

_PM700. Standard._

_Scanning…   Deviancy detected._

_PC200. Upgraded._

_Scanning…   Deviancy detected._

_PM700. Upgraded._

_Scanning…   Deviancy detected._

_PC200. Standard_

_Scanning…   Deviancy detected._

 

\--all so obvious in their movements, their mannerisms, expressions. Even Captain Fowler’s office is entirely made of glass so one can clearly see, and in the case of the argument within, hear, exactly what is occurring. No privacy is afforded in the eye of the law, even for the law. Ironic. But maybe fair.

There seem to be more androids than people, despite the revolution that saw thousands of them deactivated and trashed, although most of them appear to be standard security models for use only within the precinct. Captain Fowler—

 

_Capt. Fowler, Jeffry_

_Born 08/08/1982_

_6 ft - 198 lbs_

_Initiating Background Search…_

 

\--is among the few humans in the room. Across from him in the office is—

 

_Det. Reed, Gavin_

_Born 10/07/2002_

_5 ft 9 – 176 lbs_

_Initiating Background Search…_

 

\--Detective Gavin Reed, whose disciplinary record brings a frown to your face. It seems ceaseless, so you cut off the supply of information rather than reading it through to its end. At the desks are—

 

_Ofc. Miller, Chris_

_Born 09/30/2009_

_6 ft 1 – 205 lbs_

_Initiating Background Search…_

 

\--Officer Miller—

 

_Ofc. Chen, Tina_

_Born 04/21/2000_

_5 ft 5 – 152 lbs_

_Initiating Background Search…_

 

\--Officer Chen and—

 

_Lt. Anderson, Hank_

_Born 09/06/1985_

_6 ft 2 – 209 lbs_

_Initiating Background Search…_

 

\--Lieutenant Hank Anderson, whose list of commendations is as impressive as his disciplinary record. The two combined nearly overwhelm you as they roll over your vision. His profile is pinged by your processors for his involvement in investigating deviancy-related crimes; Anderson is likely to be an individual you’ll have to work closely with, so his personal information follows the onslaught of career statistics. It all seems fairly standard, despite a reported history with alcoholism and suicidal tendencies in his medical records. The name of his deceased son appears before you, _Cole_ , and strikes an odd note in your chest you can’t quite

Eyes on you.

The desk adjacent to Lieutenant Anderson is occupied by an android you don’t recognize—

 

_RK800 #313 248 317 – 52 (Prototype)_

_Investigator/Negotiator_

_Manufactured 08/2038_

_Scanning…   Deviancy Detected_

_Accessing Cyberlife Databanks…_

 

His desk is mostly bare, clean. There’s a framed commemorative coin and a photo you can’t see. His LED flickers yellow as he holds your gazed and you can feel the alert from his scan in the back of your processors, which quickly supply your human profile and physical readings for him to analyze.

A blink, and he’s done, standing, moving towards you.

“Hello,” he starts, offering a hand to shake and a tiny smile. “My name is Connor. Did you need help today?” A detailed profile of his recent missions races through your memory. He’s an impressive android, assuming this information is genuine and unadulterated. One hundred percent mission completion rate. One death. A deviant, but only after much difficulty, if the snippets of his stored memories you’re able to access are anything to go by. Explains why his smile needs some work.

A heartbeat after he speaks, you reach out to shake his hand. “I’m actually waiting for Captain Fowler. Has he been in this…meeting for long?”

Connor folds his hands behind his back and glances at the scene with an amused gleam. “I wouldn’t anticipate them wrapping up any time soon. Detective Reed is quite argumentative and unlikely to let this particular issue go without a fight.”

You make a show of checking the watch on your wrist; you don’t even need the thing. “I’m on a bit of a time crunch,” you tell him curtly. “So I suppose he’ll have to be done whether he wants to or not.” Connor’s expression changes just slightly, pursed with something between impressed and doubtful, but he doesn’t stop you from marching over to the office. An incredulous _who the fuck is that_ sounds off from the vicinity of Lieutenant Anderson’s desk when you pass into his line of vision, but both Connor’s approaching response and the current stream of curses supplied by Detective Reed are cut off when the office door swings closed behind you.

Reed looks you up and down and responds similarly to Lieutenant Anderson, “Who the fuck are you?” Coworkers must rub off on one another.

“Reed, get out of my office.” Captain Fowler jumps in before you can respond.

“Why,” Reed snaps back. “This newbie walks in and all of a sudden you think we’re done? No way, I’m not letting this go, Fowler.” His body language is stiff and tense. His heart rate is high, but your quick scan doesn’t tell you if it’s from rage or nervousness. You aren’t quite certain what the protocol might be here. Captain Fowler is the head of the precinct and by all rights should be able to handle this on his own, but you theoretically outrank them all right now. It seems worth a shot, so you hold up your badge again and give what you hope is a friendly smile rather than a smug one.

“I’m Agent [Name] with the FBI. I’m here to speak with Captain Fowler concerning some cases this department may be investigating.”

Reed blinks incredulously. “ _May_? The hell does that mean?” Perhaps you made a poor choice of words.

Fowler straightens up, boiling with renewed rage at Reed’s incessant nosiness. “Reed, get out!” He turns to the glass wall and bellows louder, “Nines! Get him the fuck out of my face!” You follow his direction and see Connor ascending the steps to the office. His demeanor is colder than before, more serious, and he grabs Detective Reed by the shirt collar to haul him out. Following the struggle’s exit leads you to see Connor, however—the _real_ Connor—watching comfortably from his perch on the corner of Lieutenant Anderson’s desk. Before they’re gone from view, you manage a quick scan of this lookalike—

 

_RK900 (Prototype)_

_Manufactured 11/2038_

_Investigator/Negotiator_

_Scanning…   Deviancy Detected_

_Accessing Cyberlife Databanks…_

 

\--and you…at least understand the name, unimaginative as it seems. There’s not nearly as much data on him as his predecessor model.

Captain Fowler drops tiredly into his seat while Nines and Reed disappear around a corner. It’s finally quiet, save for the mild white noise of the office that’s almost soothing.

“I’d appreciate if you didn’t do anything to encourage his big mouth from now on. He rides my ass enough as it is.” Fowler’s eyes are closed, hand pinching the bridge of his nose while he breathes deeply. He releases the nerve there only to gesture to the seat across his desk. You sit there, posture disciplined and perfect, but wait for him to speak again rather than initiate. After two, three, four minutes, Captain Fowler finally exhales. When he meets your gaze, he tips his head in what you think is supposed to be thanks.

“I was told you’d be coming, but the FBI hasn’t been forthcoming with information. So are you gonna tell me what this is all about?”

You go a little lax in the seat, confident in your memorization. While your hunt doesn’t completely hinge on the Captain believing you, his trust will go a long way to earning the trust of the other officers. You’re thankful for synthetic hands and feet; they do not fidget.

“Unfortunately,” you begin in a languid drawl. “I’m unable to provide you extensive information on my current assignment. However my understanding is you’ve recently worked with other agents regarding the recent android crisis, so I expect you might already have some familiarity with that particular dead-end.

“What I can tell you is that myself and another agent have been tasked with tracking several dangerous criminals. Given the nature of their crimes, their identities are being withheld from the public—we don’t want to incite any panic, otherwise all the work we’ve done to find them up to this point might be lost. We know they’re in Detroit, Captain Fowler, and while we are confident in our abilities to detain them ourselves, we believe it’s only a matter of time before a case relating to their presence crosses your desks. So my partner and I have decided to be proactive and ask for your cooperation on any cases we flag for our search. With any luck, we’ll be able to capture our suspects before much damage can be done.”

“We won’t be that lucky,” Fowler interjects. “Not with the way things are going around here. Everyone’s still on edge from recent events. Crime rates have gone up, you know. And I don’t mean the theft and vandalism from the protests.” He narrows his eyes at you, angry, but not like he was with Reed. It’s a controlled, intellectual anger. “I get that you probably weren’t around for the Battle of Detroit, agent, but you know that humans tried to completely evacuate the city? To flee the _country_? Public transportation didn’t stay open long enough for even the majority of the population to make it out. Then the roads closed, and everyone was stuck.”

He leans forward, over his desk, somber and serious enough to hold your complete attention. “The people left in this city are either afraid, or they’ve chosen a side, and none of them are going to react well if people start turning up dead.”

You make mental notes of these details. The facility had provided information on recent events, but none of the reports covered the general mood of the population this clearly.

“I understand, Captain,” you respond evenly, hoping that remaining calm will keep him the same way. “This isn’t an easy situation to deal with, which is why we don’t want to tell you to just sit back and just let us handle it. This is your city, and above all your home. You should get to play a role in handling its crime. We are not here to sweep the rug out from under you, Captain, and we are aware we may need the assistance of your department in finding these criminals. All we ask is that you tolerate our presence and that you don’t pry for information where we are not authorized to provide it.”

Fowler sighs again, holding your gaze for a long, tense minute. After a moment he shakes his head and declares, “You’re gonna stick around even if we don’t want you, huh?”

“I’m afraid so,” you quirk a smile and Fowler finds it in himself to respond in turn. He leans across the desk and you shake his hand, feeling much accomplished. “I should return to my partner for now, Captain Fowler, but I will be in touch if anything arises.”

He doesn’t say anything as you rise and leave his office. The door closes gently behind you, and standing all in a huddle at Lieutenant Anderson’s desk are Reed, Nines, Connor, and the man himself, all staring at you with varying expressions. The golden marker over the building’s exit is nagging in its incessancy. But when you think about it, chatting with these officers, getting to know them, is a method by which you might preemptively being earning their trust. A new marker fades into life above them, leaving you now with two directions to take the next step in your mission.

 

**Linger** -Twelve hasn’t contacted you, so you have some spare time. Why not use it to better understand these potential allies?

**Leave** \- Twelve was sent to meet with the Detroit SWAT team. You could return now, and use the extra time to meet them and share what you’ve learned with your partner.


End file.
